"Which way is the Rim? " he asked, turning to his saddle girths.

"South," she replied, pointing. "It's only a mile or so. I'll walk
down with y'u. . . . Suppose y'u're on the way to Grass Valley?"

"Yes; I've relatives there," he returned. He dreaded her next
question, which he suspected would concern his name. But she did
not ask. Taking up her rifle she turned away. Jean strode ahead
to her side. "Reckon if you walk I won't ride."

So he found himself beside a girl with the free step of a Mountaineer.
Her bare, brown head came up nearly to his shoulder. It was a small,
pretty head, graceful, well held, and the thick hair on it was a shiny,
soft brown. She wore it in a braid, rather untidily and tangled, he
thought, and it was tied with a string of buckskin. Altogether her
apparel proclaimed poverty.

Jean let the conversation languish for a little. He wanted to think
what to say presently, and then he felt a rather vague pleasure in
stalking beside her. Her profile was straight cut and exquisite in
line. From this side view the soft curve of lips could not be seen.

She made several attempts to start conversation, all of which Jean
ignored, manifestly to her growing constraint. Presently Jean,
having decided what he wanted to say, suddenly began: "I like this
adventure. Do you?"

"Adventure! Meetin' me in the woods?" And she laughed the laugh
of youth. "Shore you must be hard up for adventure, stranger."